


Beware the Ides of March

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Doctor! Clarke, F/M, teacher! bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-05 21:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: Bellamy doesn’t believe in any higher power, but he will admit that if such a thing did exist, they would probably be laughing at his misfortune at this very minute which. Honestly, he would be too if not for the stab wound in his side. Stab wounds apparently make the whole laughing thing kind of difficult. Who’d’ve known.





	

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is

Bellamy doesn’t believe in any higher power, not really. He also doesn’t believe in fate, or coincidence, or any of those other things that people like to blame random happenings on.

But he will admit that if he did actually believe in any of those things, he would be fully convinced that they were laughing at his misfortune at this very minute which. Honestly, he would be too if not for the stab wound in his side. Stab wounds apparently make the whole laughing thing kind of difficult. Who’d’ve known.

“Would you just hold  _ still _ ?” Clarke huffs as she tries to clean the wound.

“ _ No _ .”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And your bedside manner  _ sucks _ , princess.”

She pinches the soft skin on the inside of his bicep and he yelps, glaring at her balefully.

It’s not like he  _ wants  _ to be here, sitting on the uncomfortable examination table in the ER, shirt off, and paper crinkling noisily beneath him each time he so much as breathes. No one ever wants to be in the ER, leaking blood all over the place because they were fucking  _ stabbed _ in a mugging gone wrong, not even if the opportunity lends itself to a bout of truly morbid humour.

Just this morning he was telling his sophomores about the Ides of March and now here he is, living his own version of it. Again, he would be laughing except- stab wound.

Clarke is bent over his side, wisps of blonde hair escaping her braid and looking platinum in the harsh fluorescent hospital lighting. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she goes over the cut with antiseptic, and he hisses once more.

“That hurts,” he grunts, and then flinches again when she goes back in with another piece of gauze. Most of the bleeding has stopped, but there’s still a lazy trickle that she has to keep wiping up intermittently.

“Stab wounds tend to do that,” she deadpans.

“This can’t even be called a stab wound,” he grumbles, “Tis but a scratch.”

“A scratch that, had it been a few inches deeper, would have perforated your left lung,” she tells him as she grabs the suture kit. He eyes the needle warily while she readies it, feeling his side already twinging in pain. Clarke had injected him with a local anaesthetic as soon as she brought him in, but it was taking some time to actually kick in. Plus he just really fucking hates needles.

“Fine. It’s just a flesh wound then.”

“Please stop quoting Monty Python and let me do my job in peace.”

“You’re the one who started it.”

She holds up the forceps threateningly. “I will gag you and strap you to this bed if it gets you to shut up and let me do my job right.”

Somehow Bellamy manages a smirk, even as she begins the arduous process of stitching him up. “If you wanted to tie me up in bed, princess, you just needed to ask.”

“I will  _ stab  _ you.”

“Stabbing me twenty three times is the kind of symbolism I could get behind,” he muses, “If I had to pick a way to go, it would be that.”

She pauses for a brief second, looking at him weirdly. “I’m going to check you for a concussion after this. You’re talking crazier than normal. And this is coming from a person who’s seen you get drunk and rant about the merits of the Spongebob characters’ living arrangements.”

He ignores that little jibe and instead asks, “Didn’t learn about Caesar in history class, Griffin?”

She laughs. “More like never paid attention in history class,” she says before shooting him a sly look. “Don’t worry though; I’m sure your freshmen pay more than enough attention when you’re up in front teaching. Though I can’t promise that it’s about the course material.”

A greenish tinge appears on his skin, and he sounds genuinely disturbed when he says, “Please don’t talk about my freshmen like that. They’re children and I’m double their age, Clarke.  _ Double _ . Just let me pretend that they’re really engrossed in the civil war, alright.”

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that you’re a history  _ buff _ ,” she carries on jokingly, poking him lightly in the chest. “Do you even lift, bro?”

“God, you’re the worst.”

“Oh Mr. Blake is just so  _ dreamy _ ,” she pretends to swoon, “Mr. Blake smiled at me today and I couldn’t focus on the rest of the class. Mr. Blake’s smile could light up the whole world.”

“That’s it. I want a new doctor. Bring back the nurse who was here before you kicked her out. She wouldn’t have me worried about my life choices.” Bellamy would worry about sounding whiny except that ship has sailed a long time ago. He’s convinced that there’s not much he can actually do that would sufficiently embarrass him in front of Clarke, not when she’s been there since the days he thought slicking his hair back was a good idea. They’ve seen it all when it comes to each other, and it’s one of the many things that endears him towards her.

“No need,” she says smugly as she finishes tying off the stitches, clipping off the excess, “I’m done.”

He blinks down at her. “Already?” He has to crane his neck look down at his side, and finds a set of five neat stitches holding him all together. “That was quick.”

Clarke fixes him with a flat stare. “Well I am ER doctor. Quick is in the job description,” she tells him, and he feels himself flush, “Besides, you’re much easier to deal with when distracted. It was either meaningless conversation or a sedative, and frankly I didn’t want to risk you drooling over everything.”

“Thanks Clarke, really feeling the love here,” he drawls with a roll of his eyes.

“Et tu, Brutus?” she shoots back, gently pressing the waterproof bandage over his stitches.

“You’re not even using it correctly,” he groans, slumping against the wall, “Honestly, we’ve been friends for  _ years  _ and this is where it leads us? I don’t even-”

“Maybe you should explain it to me,” she interrupts smoothly as she starts cleaning up. “Over dinner. My shift ends in a couple of minutes.”

Bellamy gapes at her, fumbling when she throws his bloodstained shirt at him. “What?”

She’s pointedly not looking at him, instead swabbing down the instruments far too vigorously while he takes his time and pulls on his shirt. There’s a hint of colour that stains her cheeks as she says, “We’ve established that my history knowledge has been… lacking, so why don’t you help me  _ fill in the gaps _ ,” she pauses to throw him a quick smirk over her shoulder, watching as the rest of his chest is hidden from view, “I promise to be a very attentive audience.”

He’s not sure if his head feels cloudy from blood loss or because Clarke Griffin is actually  _ asking him out, _ which is something that only happens in his wildest dreams. It’s a bit surreal, and he actually shakes himself.

“Are you- out of all possible times to do this, you’ve chosen now, when I’m sitting in your ER after you’ve just stitched me up?”

She tries to keep her face impassive but the flush deepens and she drums her fingers against the side of her leg, a nervous tic he’s come to recognise. “Depends on your answer.”

He pretends to think about it for a little while, even though the only thing in his mind right now is  _ ‘holy shit this is really happening’ _ playing on loop. “Well I guess someone has to make sure I follow the doctor’s orders,” he finally says after a brief moment of fake contemplation. She ducks her head, biting the inside of her cheek to stop from grinning.

“You givin’ me permission to boss you about?” she asks, pulling off her gloves.

“Like you need it,” he snorts, and she kicks at his shin lightly. “See? Terrible bedside manner. The absolute worst.”

She throws the gloves in the bin without watching and steps into the vee of his legs. “I’ll just have to make it up to you somehow,” she says, carding her fingers through his hair before pressing her lips to his softly.

It’s a quick kiss, dry and chaste, but he still chases after the taste of her nonetheless, letting his hands grasp at her hips.

“I hope you don’t do that with all the patients you’re mean to,” he murmurs, not wanting to be the one to break the moment.

Her fingers are still tangled in his hair, and she runs them through the ends. “Only to the ones I really, really like,” she tells him, and he bumps his nose into her cheek, smiling like an idiot, as she pulls away.

“Well I hope you really, really,  _ really  _ like me,” he starts, gingerly stepping down from the table, “Because our first date is going to be to the police station to report a mugging.”

Clarke throws her head back and laughs, letting him lean on her as she helps him back out to the waiting area. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she says, smiling softly, and Bellamy squeezes her fingers in return.

**Author's Note:**

> my blog is currently a mess of ides of march puns [join me in the trashcan](http://hiddenpolkadots.tumblr.com/).


End file.
